


It's Too Late To Turn Back Now

by waywardrose



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/M, Off-Screen Murder, Past Abuse, Period-Typical Sexism, brief injury description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 06:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrose/pseuds/waywardrose
Summary: The first time Flip saw you, you were bruised and cuffed. The scuttlebutt around the precinct was you had run over and murdered your abusive ex-boyfriend.





	It's Too Late To Turn Back Now

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous said: Hello! How about C and O for Flip??? You're amazing!!!!
> 
> I’m not the only amazing one here! 😘 Thank you so much for prompting me! I hope you enjoy, honey.
> 
> **Comfort** \- _How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?_  
**On Cloud Nine** \- _What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?_
> 
> Prompts from the [Fluff Alphabet](https://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com/post/186447745297/fluff-alphabet)

The first time Flip saw you, you were bruised and cuffed. The scuttlebutt around the precinct was you had run over and murdered your abusive ex-boyfriend. Some of the officers thought you were unhinged and should be thrown in the looney bin.

Flip did not agree. And neither did the judge. Your bail was set comically low.

He surreptitiously read through your case file and then your ex’s. The ex, while relatively young, had a rap sheet as long as Flip’s leg. How you got involved with him was beyond Flip.

Your trial was cut and dry. You were charged with vehicular homicide, fined $800, and sentenced to two-years probation. Which was better than a five-year prison sentence with a chance of parole at three. Unfortunately, now that you were a felon, you lost your job. The only place that would even talk to you was the little 24-hour diner by the airfield.

Flip didn’t know why he was so interested or why he kept track of you. He chalked it up to being curious. And maybe a little attracted. You were smart, knew when to stay quiet, which lawyer to hire. Your eyes had snapped at the gall of the state when the prosecutor had tried to paint you as just another crazy girl. When the judge had looked at you, you had stared right back and shook your head.

Your lip had still been busted then. Your left eye ringed. Handprints around your neck. You hadn’t hidden behind strategic makeup. You had worn your hair back for all the world to see what your ex had done to you.

Flip had been proud of your chutzpah from his place at the back of the closed courtroom. He was glad that piece of shit was dead. Afterwards, he found out who your probation officer would be. He suggested the community service part of your probation be completed at his precinct.

The officer had snorted, but agreed.

* * *

Today was the second day of community service. You examined your face in the mirror. The bruising had finally faded. You looked almost normal, but you knew you’d never be able to see your reflection without remembering everything. That deranged look in his eyes, the hard thump against the hood of your car, the crazing of the windshield when he hit.

Your mother called for you from the living room. It had been collectively agreed upon that your ruined car would be sold for parts and you would move back in until your probation was over. That left you feeling like a child.

A child with almost $1000 in debt and a probation officer.

However, in some ways, it made it all easier. Your mother took most of the domestic duties while you had a regulated schedule and kept your head down. You worked part-time at Bo’s Diner during the day. In the evenings, you filed reports and typed inner-office communiques at the police department down the street from your favorite library. At night, you read and went to bed early.

Your mother dropped you off with a reserved grin and a wish for a good evening. She hadn’t been the same since posting your bail. You father, on the other hand, refused to speak with you beyond greetings and orders. He’d gotten you a lawyer for the trial, though, and had moved your bedroom furniture into your old room with the rest going into the basement. You supposed that was something.

You thanked her, got out of the vehicle, and walked into the precinct like you weren’t a convicted felon. You checked in at the front desk and were walked back to the records room. The glass-walled workspace on your left was unoccupied save for a lone detective.

The detective had black shaggy hair, creamy skin, and a cigarette between his full lips. He was handsome in a way you didn’t expect a policeman to be. Your eyes met for a second, and something about his formidable demeanor startled you into a faster pace.

You weren’t scared, you knew that much. No one scared you like him. A dark voice reminded you that you’d killed him, too. There was nothing to be scared of now.

The clerk in the records room gave you the tasks for the shift. There were multiple stacks of files to put away and announcements to be proofread/typed/distributed. You had to use the dreaded mimeo, but, you reminded yourself, it was better than being in jail.

The clerk clocked out after an hour and told you if you had any problems, to take them to the detective in charge. You glanced out the open door to see the detective’s broad back.

* * *

Without your face beat to shit, you were stunning. He got the impression you would be, but he was not prepared. His palms wouldn’t stop sweating. He could barely concentrate on the report he was trying to finish.

And he couldn’t even see you. You couldn’t really see him, either. He didn’t know what the hell his problem was.

It had been so stupid to take the evening shift for the next two weeks. He had wanted to make sure you settled in fine and no one gave you any crap, though. He was mother-hen-ing a person who didn’t even know he existed. You didn’t need protection, anyway. You were capable and clearly handling your situation just fine.

A quick rap on the open door jolted him from his thoughts. He looked up to see you. Without even thinking about it, he jumped to his feet. Of course it was you. His chair squeaked as it rolled back a few inches.

“Sorry for disturbing you, Detective.” You held up a stack of paper and shrugged. “Memo for tomorrow.”

Oh shit. Holy shit. _Fucking_ shit.

Your voice. So much different than it had been during the trial. Maybe it was acoustics. Whatever it was, whatever the reason, he liked your voice.

Then he realized he’d been staring for too long. He shook himself out of it, wiped his damp hand on his jeans, and held it out as he introduced himself. You shuffled the stack in your arms and shook his hand, offering your name.

“Call me Flip,” he offered. “Can I help?”

“Oh! Uh…” You studied the stack. “Sure, thanks. I hope that’s okay.”

“‘Course it is.”

He took the top half of the papers and began distributing them on the cluttered desks around him. He watched you move to the other side of the bullpen. You didn’t scurry like a frightened mouse, like he expected you to. He tried not to stare at the way your hips swayed as you walked.

“How’re you settling in?” he asked to break the silence.

“I’m okay—all things considered.”

He feigned ignorance. “Oh?” He didn’t want you to know how much he knew.

“I’m sure you’ve heard,” you said as you paused by Myers’ desk.

“I’ve heard a lot of things.”

You grinned. “Seeing as you’re a detective.”

He huffed a little laugh and shrugged.

“I’m okay,” you answered. “Everyone’s been… nice?”

“With a question at the end.”

“I mean, I didn’t expect a party.”

“Of course.”

“But considering my conviction, I expected…”

“Disrespect?” he offered.

You nodded. “Disrespect.”

“Well, if anyone gives you any, you can come to me.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

He corrected, “Flip.”

“Flip,” you said with a smile. Your voice was warmer than it had been.

He absolutely did not feel butterflies in his stomach.

* * *

A knock on the open records-room door drew you away from filing. It was Flip, of course. It was only the two of you at the back of the building. Somehow, that didn’t make you nervous in the slightest. Though he was tall and broad-shouldered—obviously strong—and had a gun in his shoulder holster, you felt safe around him. Flip wasn’t anything like him.

“Can I buy you a coffee from our _gracious_ break-room?” he asked.

That was code for a half-hour smoke break in the courtyard. It had become routine over the past week or so. You would join him and talk about whatever. Sometimes it was office gossip, or the news, or what you’d been reading. Whatever the topic, that half an hour always flew by quickly.

You agreed to a coffee, and he disappeared from the doorway. You didn’t even have to tell him how you liked your coffee anymore. He remembered.

You waited for him by the outside door and held it open when he returned, since his hands were obviously occupied. He murmured a _thanks_ as he passed.

The late-spring night was just warm enough to enjoy. The pale pea gravel crunched under your heels as you followed him to a bench. He took one end and set the mugs down in the middle. You sat on the opposite end with a tension-relieving sigh. It was nice to sit in the dim courtyard, away from all the reminders of your circumstances.

“I read your file,” Flip said as he put a cigarette between his lips.

You just had to think it, didn’t you? Well, so much for distancing yourself from your circumstances.

“So, you know.”

Now, he was going to admonish you like your father had. How could you date someone like him? What were you thinking? _I thought you were smarter than that._ You should’ve called the police, should’ve seen it coming.

Shoulda shoulda shoulda.

“Yeah, I read your ex’s, too.” The clink of Flip’s lighter opening punctuated the sentence. “I’m not saying I like what you did, but I understand.”

He lit the cigarette, the soft crackle of his first inhale splintered the tense silence.

You whispered, “I didn’t like it, either.”

“I wish you hadn’t had to do it.”

“He wouldn’t leave me alone after I left him. He called all hours of the night. He broke in and left a bouquet on the kitchen counter. I know he took something, too, but I never figured out what.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“How could I prove it was him? Everyone would’ve thought it was a sweet gesture or something.” You picked up your coffee and took a sip. It was perfect. “I tried to have the landlord change the locks, but he wouldn’t unless I paid him half a month’s rent.”

“Seems a little steep.”

“The asshole didn’t want to drag his sorry ass across town is all.”

“Then it happened.”

“If you’ve read my case, then you know how it went down.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There was something about Flip’s tone, something soft, that made you finally look at him. He met your gaze. His downright pretty eyes glinted in the low light. If you were anyone else, if the circumstances were different, you would’ve leaned over to kiss him. He looked like he might be receptive.

Flip said, “I wanna dig him up and shoot him out of spite.”

You laughed at his unexpected comment. You threw your head back and laughed at the velvet night sky. Oh, how you would love to see Flip, covered in dirt, shooting at the closed casket with your dead ex inside. You’d be covered in dirt, too. You’d set that casket on fire at the end; roast marshmallows over that son-of-a-bitch’s grave.

Your breath stuttered between one chuckle and the next. Why couldn’t you have met Flip before this? You would’ve chosen him any day of the week.

You took a sip of coffee to loosen your suddenly tight throat. Yes, you would’ve picked Flip. But it was too late now. Your eyes flooded at the thought. You looked up and blinked back your tears.

“Hey,” Flip murmured.

You shook your head, and Flip said a gentle _“hey”_ again. The bright cherry on his spent cigarette arched across the courtyard like a lost comet. He scooted closer and put a hand on top of your wrist. His hand was warm and huge and _welcome._

“Talk to me.”

You croaked, “It’s too late for me.”

“Too late for what?”

For everything. For love. For avoiding pain. You were damaged goods now. You were a murderer, a felon, an idiot who didn’t see him for what he was. You couldn’t imagine anyone wanting you.

You tried to grin at Flip. “I wish I’d known you earlier.”

“You know me now.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Mind what?”

You wanted to protest, tell him he shouldn’t bother, that he _should_ mind. He plucked the mug from your hand and set it on the bench. He took your hand in both of his and brought it to his lips to kiss. It was such a simple gesture. It made you feel as though it wasn’t too late.

Maybe it wasn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com)


End file.
